


A Marriage of Convenience

by bookfairy_writes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookfairy_writes/pseuds/bookfairy_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A marriage of convenience and advantage between two wealthy London families--the Holmeses and the Adlers--Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler discover after they've married that neither is precisely what the other was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marraige

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This started out as a tumblr post at some ungodly hour and has FINALLY been posted somewhere I can keep better track of it. Yes, I do plan on continuing it.

Sherlock Holmes was engaged without either party having much say in the matter. As a younger son not inheriting the family business (banking), he was best utilized to ally the family with another, equally powerful one. The Adler family.

Irene Adler, beauty and increasingly, scandal-starter was equally displeased with the idea of marrying a man she had met perhaps in passing but never directly. However, her parents were out of options. Her increasingly daring ventures out of her home and with persons of questionable character were beginning to sully the Adler name and the options were strategic marriage or a convent—and no Adler was going to a convent.

The actual meeting of the two parties was quiet and cold. He examined her, deemed her “passably attractive” to his brother in tones she could clearly hear, and offered her the ring (traditional but expensive) which she slipped onto her finger, meeting his cool blue gaze with her own. _At the very least,_ she thought to herself, _he doesn’t seem the type to nag._ It was likely she would be thoroughly neglected, leaving her to her own devices. This suited her just fine. He seemed bright enough, she would have to keep her affairs subtle. No matter.

After deeming her attractive and presenting the ring, Sherlock sat in silence with his fiancee for an hour before the chaperon suggested they all retire for an afternoon rest. He didn’t much care where she went—she was going to be his wife and other than the loathsome expectation that he would have to produce an heir with her, she was, in his mind, irrelevant. He still had his salary, his entertainments (mostly consulting work for the police department, but also the occasional trip to the opium den and balls he was dragged to). He returned to his room in the cellar, set aside for his science experiments.

Irene Adler rode home in the carriage, ring on her finger, and tucked it in her bosom before stepping out into the street. There were shops to visit, dresses to be made, but most importantly, a charming young rouge who would share his cigarettes, and if she was in a mood for it, the more delicate parts of his anatomy. After the hour she’d just had with her husband-to-be, she was most certainly in a mood for the cigarettes, and likely the other as well.

The wedding was scarcely 2 months later and well attended by society, many of whom commented on the fine-looking match. Sherlock’s best man was John Watson, a doctor and chemist he’d known since childhood. Irene’s maid of honor was picked at random from one of the families her father particularly wanted to make a good impression on. She even bothered to remember the girl’s name—Kate something.

The ball after the ceremony was grand and expensive. Most everyone enjoyed themselves, save, of course, the bride and groom. The groom enjoyed the dancing but dreaded the beginning of his duties, beginning in only a few short hours. The bride enjoyed the groom’s discomfort but also dreaded consummating the marriage. She had finally trained the charming young gentleman to behave in a manner she liked—with him thinking it was all his idea—and she didn’t fancy having to train this Sherlock. It was irritatingly slow work and men were rarely conscientious of their partner’s pleasure, so focused they were on their own member and its seemingly magical abilities to enter a woman.

The ball was over too soon for the couple who were shepherded out the door and into a waiting carriage which bore them away. Sherlock and John knew where they were headed but no one else knew. The Holmes estate would be the usual location, but it had been used for the wedding and so instead the newlyweds were on a boat across the channel to France where the Holmes family owned a second, considerably smaller estate.

That first night, they slept in a hotel. Two separate rooms in a hotel to be precise. The morning brought a boat ride and another carriage ride to the estate, where after a stiffly formal tour, they went their separate ways until supper, which was a quiet, formal affair.

Neither one of them spoke.

After supper and tea, Sherlock returned to his bedchamber, steeling himself for what he knew was his duty. Despite the fact that he had been assured by many other men that this duty was pleasurable, he very much doubted he would find it so. After freshening up, he stiffened his spine and pulled a dressing down over his arm, doubting he would much feel like bothering dressing again once he was disrobed.

His knock was sharp and precise. It was also unanswered.  
As was the second.  
And the third.

Irritated, he rose his fist to knock once more, when the door opened, revealing Irene Adler….no….Irene Holmes. Clad in only a dressing gown, more creamy skin was revealed than he had ever seen on any person, let alone a woman.

"Mr. Holmes," she greeted him, and stepped back to let him in.

"Mrs, Holmes," he returned, managing not to wince at the title.

"I understand that it is our duty to consummate the vows we have made before God and ideally, produce a heir."

_Produce an heir_. Irene thought to herself scornfully, _At least he won’t have any bad habits. I doubt he’ll know where to put the damn thing._

He undressed himself methodically and left the clothing on the floor before gesturing to indicate she should also disrobe.

After she had complied _He didn’t even look,_ she thought indignantly, he moved to the bed and drew back the covers, looking at her expectantly.

"I have been told that this will also be the first time you have experienced this and that I am to be gentle. It is my understanding that some blood is entirely normal, as is a small amount of pain. I will try to minimize this for you, as is my duty as a husband."

She climbed into the bed beside him and lay on her back, allowing him to straddle her and lean down to inspect the juncture between her legs. Carefully, he spread her legs and used his fingers to explore the area before determining where precisely insertion was to occur. Had the examination not been so clinical, it may have been arousing. He was kneeling above her and lining his (barely hard) arousal up with her before she put a hand on his belly.

_If I have to do this until a male heir is produced, I may as well ensure it’s pleasurable,_ she thought. What she said, however, was entirely different.

"As I am inexperienced, might it be a good idea for both of us to familiarize ourselves with the areas we will be using?"

_Logical,_ he thought, and said so aloud before agreeing with her.

His mind was a bit less logical as she guided his hand to her hip.

"You are a scientist, yes?"

He nodded.

"Then let us manage this scientifically."

_Though the act might not be pleasant, at least she is not some silly creature_ , he thought to himself before agreeing once more.

"Surely to keep the pain minimal, determining where it originates from would make it easier to avoid."

Also logical, he thought. Thank God.

However, once he began his exploration, he began to find his wife’s reactions to such to be…distracting. Given the increased blood flow to his genitalia, this sort of reaction from her was precisely what was meant to prepare him for such activities. This idea was reinforced by a jolt of hot pleasure as her hand, previously resting on the bedspread, encircled him and began to gently stroke.

With a gasp, he leaned forward.

"Is it meant to be…"

"Pleasurable?" her voice was low and warm. "Yes."

Throat too tight to speak, he nodded before forcing out another few words.

"Is it…for you?"

She chuckled.

"No. But that hardly matters at the moment. It will be."

It was that precise moment that Sherlock Holmes realized that perhaps he was in over his head.


	2. Consummation

_It was that precise moment that Sherlock Holmes realized that perhaps he was in over his head._

Shuddering at the sensation, he reorganized his mind, bringing all pertinent information to the front of his brain. Words like virginity and intercourse and pheromones all flashed before his eyes as he inhaled, trying to slow his breathing and heart rate. Her hand did not cease in its motion and he realized that in his surprise, the entire focus of the experiment had been lost. The point was to ensure that she was not hurt by the interaction, not...whatever had happened. Ceasing his probing of her more delicate parts, his hand wrapped around her wrist, forcing it to halt.

She met his gaze, amused and looking decidedly satisfied.

"You know how to give my body pleasure," he stated calmly, despite the fact that his erection twitched in the absence of her touch. "I was given the impression that you would not know how to do that."

 _Well he certainly doesn't let his member lead his brain,_ she thought wryly, and met his gaze, her expression innocently puzzled.

"Did I displease you?"

He shook his head sharply, "Irrelevant. Your knowledge of the male anatomy should be more minimal than my own of female anatomy."

 _Eyes slightly widened, lower lip plump and hinting at a tremble, he won't know how to handle a threat of tears._ She adjusted her features almost before he was done with his statement.

"Mother told me how to please my new husband." A pause, as she cast her eyes down, raising them again when little pools of tears threatened to spill out. "Did I do something wrong?"

 _Oh God, not the crying_ , he thought. Women became (more) unreasonable creatures when they cried and he had no desire to deal with such petty emotions, especially if all he wanted was to complete his duty and go to bed. Consummate the marriage, fulfill his obligation as a husband, and go to sleep so he could adjust to the idea of having to deal with a female presence in his home and life until one of them happened to die. It wasn't a pleasant duty, but it was expected and if he wanted to continue receiving his salary as a younger son and the dowry that his wife brought to fund experiments and have free time to compose music and purchase a house somewhere to live in...he had to do his duty.

"No, it's perfectly all right, please don't cry," he reached for a handkerchief from his pocket, remembered he wasn't clothed, and climbed off the bed to retrieve a handkerchief, handing it to her. "Come now, don't be upset. You've done nothing wrong." 

The words came awkwardly but he said them, waiting for her to dry her eyes and hand back the handkerchief. These women were much more sensitive creatures than he imagined. He mentally noted that his wife would NEVER be allowed in the area where he did experiments lest she swoon or cry or heaven forbid, _vomit_ onto one of his projects. All he had done was stop and make an observation and it had brought her to tears. He supposed that it had been unreasonably optimistic to think that his wife would be logical rather than silly.

Behind the handkerchief, Irene hid her face and took a moment to dry the tears she could summon at will, allowing herself to smile. Sherlock Holmes was supposedly different from other men, she'd heard the rumors of his unnatural fascination with solving crime and with chemical experiments. In this aspect, however, he was not. Like nearly every other man she'd met, he had no idea how to handle her. 

After sniffling a few times and wiping her face, she met his blue eyes with her slightly reddened ones and offered him back his handkerchief, which he received with every air of grace before placing it delicately on the table beside her bed. 

"Miss Ad--ahem--Mrs. Holmes, I am quite tired. Perhaps we should simply finish this up quickly and discuss it at a later time?" _Or never,_ he thought privately, but did not state aloud. 

 _Finish this up quickly, God he is certainly not what I expected._ She let her lip tremble just a bit, to remind him how little he enjoyed her tears, before nodding slowly. "And it won't hurt?"

"I will attempt to minimize any discomfort you have. You will, of course, alert me if I am injuring you in any way."

A glance down proved that his biological reactions had faded somewhat, but were still sufficient for what needed to be done. The problem with this scenario was thus: to be a considerate husband, he had to pay attention to what he was doing, despite the fact that everything would go more smoothly if he was allowed to simply disconnect his mind from his body and let biology do its messy work. 

"Can we not try this another time?" she let her voice tremble as her lips had, her eyes widen to suggest vulnerability. Manipulating him was going to be easier than expected.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. 

"It is our duty to attempt to produce heirs."

"I know, and I want to please you but..." she let her voice trail off.

He did not sigh aloud, but exasperation was beginning to build up. There were several things that were required of him and attempting to reproduce was one. It needn't be difficult; animals did it unthinkingly. Perhaps that was the key.

"Nervousness is to be expected." 

"We are both tired. Perhaps this would be better accomplished at a time when we are both adequately prepared."

When he sighed, it was 1 part acquiescence and 2 parts relief. 

"Very well."


	3. Schedules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now in France on the Holmes' smaller estate, the newly married couple commences with getting to know one another.

He slept poorly, but when he woke and came down to have breakfast, she was already seated at the table, dressed in something appropriate for walking outside. Her pale fingers curled around a china cup of tea and her blue eyes were barely visible through lowered lashes as she read the morning paper, absentmindedly signalling to the maid to refill her cup. It was not what he expected from the trembling young creature he had left in her bedchamber the evening prior. 

"Your manservant was good enough to give me the schedule you have set out for the next few days so I can be adequately prepared."

Her words were crisp and calm, and followed immediately by a request to the maid in flawless French.

He recalled writing up a schedule based on several suggestions his mother had given him on what his new bride might enjoy, but he had no memory of giving it to any of the servants, though he supposed he must have. Today was a ride in the countryside, though it was already late morning and he was clad in nothing but his dressing gown and a pair of long woolen socks. Sherlock rarely bothered rising on any kind of set schedule, and today was no different.

"I was going to go look through the stables while you breakfasted," she remarked, setting the paper down. "I'm very particular about my mounts."

Her lip twitched at the edge, as though in a private joke with herself. He nodded, thankful that nothing was required of him, and sat down on one end of the table as she rose from the other, smiling politely at the girl currently setting a plate and cup in front of him.

"Merci, Marie. Aurez-vous la femme de chambre chercher mes gants d'equitation?" 

The girl curtsied prettily,

"Bien sur, madame."

His wife was already gone from the room before he came to several realizations: one being that she already knew the name of the serving girl and likely that of his manservant, another that she was aware of the location and likely the contents of the estate's stables, and finally that despite displaying her more delicate nature the previous evening, she was a young woman quite accustomed to getting her own way.

"Fetch the housekeeper," he told the girl through a mouthful of toast. He did not bother switching to French; all the servants understood English. "I need to speak with her regarding what my wife is and is not allowed to do."

 As he waited for the housekeeper to appear, he sorted through his knowledge about his new wife. He recalled when his father had announced that he would need to marry someone to advance the family's name and the following discussions (arguments) thereafter. He had no desire to get married. He was quite content living in London, even if it was under his parents' roof, especially since Mycroft had already married advantageously and produced two children, a boy and a girl, with another on the way. His wife (whose name Sherlock rarely bothered remembering) was dull and submissive, well-bred and utterly boring. Sherlock was aware that Mycroft preferred the company of his peers to that of his wife, but she was dutiful and quiet and everything a proper wife was meant to be. His wife...well she was a bit of a puzzle.

Her uncertainty and tears the previous evening in the disastrous bedroom scene indicated that she was certainly not prepared for that aspect of marriage, which suited him fine. However, this morning's show of knowledge of the estate, as well as a habit of reading the morning paper (how she had acquired the local _French_ newspaper was a mystery to him), and expectation that she would have free reign of the stables (pun not intended) all indicated that she was intelligent, capable, and quite used to getting her own way. This didn't suit him quite as well. She was quite welcome to entertain herself and not be in his way, but Mycroft had made enough snide remarks about his wife's reputable strong-will prior to the marriage. His brother's predictions that she would be running the household (and Sherlock as well) to her own schedule seemed apt to come about if he didn't begin by setting firm guidelines on what would be permitted. Not to her of course--heaven forbid she start with the hysterics again. No, the best way was to simply inform the staff of what she was and was not allowed to do and let her become accustomed to the fact that he would not be as easily steered as her parents were. They fostered deep affections for her which weakened their wills and allowed more than was proper. He suffered from no such deficiencies. 

 The housekeeper was an older woman, perhaps his mother's age or older, a ring of keys on her belt and her hands brown and calloused. She had been in charge of keeping up the house since he could remember--when he was small she rapped his hand with a spoon as punishment for trying to sneak Redbeard into one of his parent's parties. It had been a long time since then, but he could read her now even more easily; the displeasure crinkled along one side of her mouth, the poor nights' sleep under her eyes, the chronic pain in her back hunching her stiff shoulders by mere centimeters. 

"Master Holmes?"

"My wife is used to getting her own way."

He saw her face flash with amusement before falling back into the polite listener's gaze.

"And while I have no problem with her entertaining herself, I do not wish for her to become accustomed to directing the house and its inhabitants, myself specifically. I like the way things are done here, and I have no plans of allowing her to ruin perfectly good routines."

The housekeeper nodded, waiting.

"That being said, ensure that any requests she makes regarding a change in our usual routines is declined. Offer whatever excuses you must."

The older woman stood before him another long moment before asking,

"Will that be all?"

"Yes, that will be all, Mrs. Hudson."

"If I might offer advice, Master Holmes," she began.

"You may not, thank you."

With a noise of disapproval, the housekeeper vanished from the room, likely to do whatever it was that housekeepers did. 

After eating (very little) and finishing his tea, Sherlock dressed and made his way to the stables, collecting things as he went. Here was his notebook and charcoals, there the book on melittology he was reading, in the drawer was his magnifying glass, tweezers, and detecting tools. They all went methodically into the leather bag, arranged just so. As an afterthought, he wrapped a scone in a napkin from breakfast and tucked it into his pocket. There was honey drizzled on top--perhaps it might be used to attract bees. 

 


	4. The First Outing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene and Sherlock go on their first outing. As one might expect, it does not go as planned.

When he reached the stables, Sherlock found that Irene Adler...Holmes....Irene Holmes had already selected a mount--a barely-broken stallion that looked like it might try to bolt free at any moment. Reddish brown with white socks and a splash of white across his cheek, the horse returned the measuring glance he gave it. 

"I don't believe I recognize him," Sherlock remarked.

"The stable boy says he's new," she replied. "Your father has a taste for wilder horses, and he was bought recently to train further for riding."

_Don't challenge her_ , he thought to himself. _She wants to be challenged so she can assert herself._ Instead, he kept his features blank.

"I wouldn't want to displease my father by having someone else ride his new mount first."

"He was bought from some French nobleman who found him too wild for his liking. I've been assured that he is familiar with a saddle and bridle, even if he requires a more strong-willed rider."

Sherlock considered his options, and settled on warming up his horse and watching her on the stallion before deciding if he would attempt to force her to choose another mount. He nodded politely at the woman and walked purposefully to the third-to-last stall where a dusty grey gelding waited for him. Upon seeing Sherlock, the gelding's ears flicked forward and it gave a soft snort of greeting, leaning its head out to lip at Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Hello Mercury," he said softly, digging into his pocket for the lump of sugar the horse was begging for. The gelding had been his for several years now, and much like Redbeard, the dog of his childhood, he had become rather irrationally attached to the creature. Allowing Mercury to daintily pick up the sugar cube, he opened the stall door and found Mercury's tack waiting for him. Typically, the stable hands saddled and readied the horses of the house, but Sherlock liked the routine of saddling Mercury and re-familiarizing himself with his friend. He had asked that except for laying out the tack and ensuring Mercury was ready to be ridden, the stable hands leave the horse to him. 

When he finished saddling Mercury, moved all he had collected from his bag and into the saddle bag, and lead him out of his stall, he rediscovered Irene and her red-and-white stallion. Head bowed so that Irene could stroke his face, the horse looked docile as a lamb. She was whispering something to him in French, he couldn't quite pick up what, only hear the accent as she let the words drop from her lips. 

"The boy told me that his previous owner called him Le Brandon." He wasn't certain that she was speaking to him, but there was no one else around.

"This is Mercury," he replied, and the gelding whickered, ears perked at the mention of his name. 

"Shall we warm them up then?"

"There's a mounting block in the yard."

 He offered Irene a hand when she stepped up onto the mounting block and was surprised to find that when she mounted Le Brandon (without his assistance), she rode astride, her skirts revealing trousers underneath momentarily before she arranged them appropriately and tapped the stallion with her heels, prompting him to walk. Sherlock was on Mercury's back in an instant in calmly following Irene and the stallion around the ring. In her hands, he was quiet and obedient. Scowling, Sherlock gestured for the stable boy to open the gate.

"It's nearly an hour's ride from here," he said aloud, not looking at Irene as Mercury walked out of the open gate and towards the large grassy expanse before them. 

She was tempted to ask why they didn't take the road, but he wanted to be asked, she just knew it. He wanted an opportunity to feel superior and show off his knowledge. Well she certainly wasn't going to give him that satisfaction. Leading Brandon out of the ring and up next to Sherlock and Mercury, she sat back in the saddle, looking up at the enormous fluffy clouds roosted in the intensely blue sky. 

The ride was silent, but not in a painfully awkward way. For the first time, Sherlock felt slightly at ease with his wife instead of a mixture of confusion and irritation. Slightly to the left of him, Irene was thinking something similar and she sighed, a faint smile drifting across her features. The silence and peace of a countryside ride without the burden of expectations and the constant attempt on both their parts to be in control...it was pleasant. Naturally, this could only last so long. Peace was not either individual's ideal and before they had been riding half an hour, she kneed Brandon into a trot so he slowly overtook Mercury. Smiling at Sherlock, she asked,

"Fancy a race?"

He glanced at her, then the horse she rode.

"Is that wise, given the nature of your mount?" His words were logical, but his tone was anything but--a sideways sort of challenge.

She responded by kicking Brandon into a run.

Not one to be outdone, Sherlock tapped his heels against Mercury's flanks and clicked softly at him, feeling the muscles of the animal tense and release as it burst excitedly into a run. Mercury wasn't just named for his color, and the gelding began to gain on Irene's stallion easily, in a smooth canter that rocked his body gently from side to side. Hearing the approaching hoof beats, Irene urged Brandon's canter into a full gallop, a burst of careless laughter escaping from her lips against her will. Racing heart, wind in her hair, the thrill of a competition, this was what she craved, what her life in London had only ever managed in her midnight escapes and mostly-unknown adventures. 

He was gaining on her, his silvery gelding living up to its name. A creek loomed closer and Irene stood in her stirrups, crouching to urge Brandon into jumping it. As his hooves met the edge of the creek bed, he leaped easily, seeming to hang in the air before landing and resuming his gallop. She pressed her lips together to keep a whoop from escaping, though the smile wasn't suppressible. Even from behind her, Sherlock could see his wife relaxing, the lines of her body loosening even as her legs urged on the stallion. For a moment he thought idly that companionship with a woman who would compete with him could be...pleasant, or at least tolerable. He dismissed the thought as soon as it crossed his mind, not allowing himself the luxury. However she behaved now, this woman was aching to control his household and likely his life. He had no intention of allowing that and sentiment was the quickest way to weakness. 

She was slowing her horse as they approached a sprawling elm tree, clearly her marker as the finish line in their impromptu race. With a chuckle, Sherlock dug his heels in and urged Mercury forward, aiming to pass her in a sprint. As Brandon slowed to a trot and he came up behind, gaining with each step, he watched the horse falter and stumble, holding its front left leg gingerly above the ground as it peered around, agitated. Irene kept her seat, though it was clearly shaken, and stopped completely, looking around for something to dismount on. Seeing nothing, she swung a leg over the side of her horse and slipped off, dropping neatly to the ground. Pulling Mercury so he slowed, Sherlock approached the potentially injured horse and his wife, who was crooning to the stallion as she patted its chest.

Sliding off, Sherlock glanced at Mercury, muttering "stand" before he approached Irene.

"What seems to be the matter?"

Irene gestured to the shoe dangling off of Brandon's hoof, the nail that had held it in place now broken in half with the flattened head curled up next to the frog of the horse's foot. He grimaced.

"That's a shoddy job of shoeing; the nail shouldn't have broken at all."

Picking up the piece that was supposed to be the sharp end of the nail, Sherlock inspected it, rubbing his fingers over it before sniffing them and giving his forefinger a lick.

"There's lead in this. Cheap workmanship to be sure. I'll be having some words with the blacksmith."

"Did you bring a hoof pick in one of those bags?"

Sherlock gave her a sideways glance and shook his head no. 

"Lovely. And will our destination have one?"

Sherlock shrugged,

"Perhaps. There are horses there at times."

"And how far is it?"

Sherlock glanced around, clearly thinking, measuring in his head.

"Perhaps four miles?" He pointed to a cluster of trees in the distance, barely visible over a hill. "Quite close to there."

"He's not walking that far, he's going to hurt himself."

"I didn't say he had to."

"Well what do you propose?"

"I can ride ahead and ask to borrow one."

She nodded, managing to look regal even with a light sheen of sweat on her brow and dirt on the hem of her dress. 

"Perhaps you can bring back some water as well."

He shrugged with one shoulder, "Perhaps."

Remounting Mercury, he started off towards the grove of trees in the distance. Irene watched him, stroking Brandon's nose all the while his 'perhaps' rubbing at her nerves as a pebble might in her shoe. 

 The honey farm wasn't very large, with less than an acre devoted to the house and stable and the rest of the land filled with trees and flowers. The hive-boxes sat in neat little rows in the sun behind a gate that was meant to keep out animals and overly curious children. The beekeeper was there, lifting lids and inspecting the bees at their work. Dismounting, Sherlock watched the bees and their keeper for a minute or longer before getting the keeper's attention and calling him over.

He was back with his wife, hook pick in his bag, within three quarters of an hour from his departure. Thankfully, the nail was easy to get out and Brandon seemed to be much happier without the metal jabbing into his foot. 

"Riding him is out of the question. He'll hurt himself."

Sherlock nodded, looking from the now unrideable horse to his own and back. 

"We can walk him to the farm's stables and have the blacksmith sent there to re-shoe him. Father won't be particularly pleased if his new horse is injured before he even gets to ride it."

"Can Mercury carry us both?"

The question seemed to shake Sherlock.

"Why would he need to?"

Keeping herself from sighing in an exasperated fashion was a feat of self-control that should have been applauded. She kept her voice even, tone as calm as she could muster.

"I certainly can't walk back the entire way with you riding, can I?"

In his opinion, she certainly could, but he knew better than to make that remark known--her voice was even but her face betrayed her, the flickers of irritation between the re-smoothing of her features into a calm mask. 

In the end, they both walked to the honey farm leading their horses, getting there just as the wind was beginning to pick up.

"You took me to a honey farm," Irene said dryly as she called the beekeeper's son over to rub down the horses.

Sherlock didn't bother replying; the remark was too obvious for him to make the effort. Instead, he turned to the boy who was carefully removing Brandon's tack as he eyed the horse warily. It snapped its teeth towards him and the boy jumped as Irene concealed a smirk.

"He's got quite the temper, madam."

"Indeed."

When she looked to see what her husband thought of the whole affair, she found him missing, his horse standing placidly in his place.

 


	5. Of Honey and Bees

He was with the bees. Walking among the hives without even a beekeeper's mask to shield his face, he was completely oblivious to his wife standing by the gate, her frustration clear in her tapping foot and scowling mouth. As she stood there, completely ignored, he opened a blank book to make notes in and his pen and ink, settling onto the grass, completely absorbed.

 _Ignored and absorbed,_ she mused. _What a dreadful indicator of how this marriage is going to play out._

Sherlock Holmes was odd, true, but this was their honeymoon and clueless as he was, he couldn't possibly think that this meant involving real honey. Other than his apparent fascination with bees, there seemed to be no explanation to this outing--the first of their marriage no less. Determined to go out of the air what was beginning to smell of rain, Irene was welcomed into the beekeeper's home with the proper respect and though the space was minimal and the beekeeper and his wife far below her station. 

A sharp tap on his shoulder jerked Sherlock from his reverie, where he found the beekeeper wringing his pocket handkerchief and looking anxious. 

"What is it?"

"You've been sitting here for over an hour, sir. Your wife was asking to have you come in."

Irritated, Sherlock brushed a stray curl from his forehead and waved a hand dismissively at the beekeeper.

"Tell her I'm busy."

When the beekeeper did not disappear, Sherlock turned microscopically and looked at him.

"Well? What is it?"

"I really couldn't, sir."

"Couldn't what?"

"Tell her you're busy. I couldn't say that to a lady, I really couldn't."

"What does she want?"

"I believe she's wanting to go back to the house, sir."

He stood abruptly, brushing off his clothing before picking up his corked inkpot and pen. After making certain the writing on his page was dry, he closed the book as well and stomped up towards the cottage. 

"Are you ill?" he asked his wife before he was entirely in the house. She sat in the parlor on what was probably the only good chair in the house, sipping water from a glass that was cleaner than anything else in the room. 

"What makes you think that?"

"You interrupted my work. I was busy."

"You were sitting on the ground making notes."

"Precisely. I was studying the flight patterns of the bees with respects to certain colored blossoms."

"Can you not do that with the bees in the garden?"

He batted a hand at her as though dismissing the question. _He's going to have that hand removed if he keeps doing that,_ she thought grimly. 

"Too small of a scale. Each of the hive boxes have a queen, so that's several swarms to study all at once, rather than a few bees here and there."

"I'm feeling rather tired," Irene fanned herself, reclining slightly in the chair. "I'd like to go back to the house and lie down."

Sherlock's gaze flicked over her, the confidently elegant neck, the straight proud back, the brightly challenging eyes. She showed no signs of fatigue whatsoever; it was far more likely that she was merely bored (though how she could manage that in such a fascinating place was beyond him) and ready to leave.

"If you're so tired, perhaps you should nap in the sun," he suggested. "We only have one horse and you're far too tired to walk all the way back."

The beekeeper and his wife both turned to Sherlock, shocked.

"She would walk alone?" his wife sounded scandalized.

"There is only _one_ horse," he repeated slowly. For someone working in such a fascinating field, the man was rather dense. 

"Not to question you of course, but mightn't the lady ride with you? Or perhaps she might ride with you leading the horse?" The beekeeper's wife was looking at him with that same measuring gaze that his brother favored (though a great deal toned down).

Sherlock could think of dozens of reasons that 'the lady' needn't ride with him or ride while he walked, but between the scandalized beekeeper's wife and the uncertain gaze of her husband, he bit them back. Ah yes, this was one of those useless customs, allowing the fairer sex privilege.

"Of course you're correct," he replied smoothly, though his wife caught a twitch of irritation at the corner of his mouth, his grip on the notebook he carried, the tightness of his lips. "If you will allow me to attend to my horse, we will be ready to go shortly."

No matter how interesting the bees were or how much he wanted to stay, society dictated actions even here. If he was deemed rude or unsuitable company for those in a station below his, he would never gain the respect and recognition expected of the Holmes name (and more importantly, the weight to show his brother a thing or two.) On his walk from the cottage to the stable, he played the scene over in his head, watching the bodies of the participants, his wife especially. Ah...there. He paused the replay in his head, fixating on her satisfied smile the moment before it vanished back behind her polite facade. This round, she had won.

 

The consideration he showed to his wife as he helped her mount the horse and ensured her comfort in front of the beekeeper and his wife grated every nerve he had left unscathed and once they were out of sight of the honey farm, it bled into him. Reins gripped slightly tighter, his knuckles whitened and his jaw clenched. He would not say a word, would not let her know she'd gotten to him. Mercury waded through the creek rather than jumping it while carrying two riders, and took the trip at a leisurely walk. He wasn't injuring his horse so Irene could get her way any faster. 

The air smelled damp and unsurprisingly, raindrops soon began to speckle his coat and Mercury's back. Chilly and wet, the rain formed tiny streams along the horse's back and flanks for a minute or two before in a clap of thunder, it began to fall in earnest. Thinking of the notes in the pocket of his jacket, Sherlock sought out some kind of shelter, finding a bent oak growing at something near a 50 degree angle to the ground, the leaves spread wide to provide some shelter from the rain. Underneath it they went, Sherlock dismounting to sit near the trunk where it was drier.

"Can we not ride through this?"

He ignored her, drying his hands the best he could before inspecting his notes for water damage (there was none) and finding them acceptable.

"Sherlock."

He raised his head as to give the impression of listening but in reality, skimmed his notes. It was going well until the papers were snatched from his hand.

" _What_?"

"Your attention, if you please."

If she had been a man, he would have considered blackening her eye for the discourtesy. _If you please._

 _"_ How long are you planning on waiting here?"

"I already told you," he huffed. "Until the rain lightens up."

"And if it goes on like this all day?"

"I can be patient."

He took her surprised pause as an opportunity to snatch back the notes and fold them before returning them to his pocket. 

The silence lasted at least an hour before the growl of Irene's stomach interrupted it.

"Do try to control your biology," he said brusquely. "I'm trying to think."

"I'm dreadfully sorry that my need for food is inconvenient."

She was being sarcastic, but the remark seemed to please him.

"Thank you."

Biting her tongue, she prevented the response burning her throat from clawing its way out. Barely.

Another growl perhaps half an hour later earned her a glare, which she returned.

"I thought I asked you to control that."

"I haven't anything to eat, or it would be controlled by now." 

The rain showed no signs of letting up.

Patting his jacket to search for his pen--he could work on his notes some while he waited, he came upon a rather squashy package in his front pocket and drew out a pastry wrapped in a cloth napkin, the honey atop it adhering the cloth to the food. He held it out to her without looking, and also without looking, she accepted it, beginning to nibble on the edge of it.

Almost as soon as she had taken her last bite, the rain seemed to slow. By the time her mouth was clean, it was clear that the rain was falling still, but significantly more lightly. Sherlock stood and lead Mercury closer to the tree, waiting for his wife to climb atop the horse. Instead of  climbing up behind her, he gave the gelding's rump a slap.

"Home, Mercury."

The horse whickered and started off at a trot towards the house. Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat up to protect his neck from the rain as he watched the horse grow smaller and smaller. He needed to think.


	6. Paris

He was damp, water dripping off his hair when he returned to the house, and was surprised to find a bath already drawn and waiting for him, steam still curling in spirals off the water.  The maid bustled in with a kettle and poured more hot water in, pausing to fluff a stack of towels.

"Shall I send in Charles to help you undress?"

"Out," Sherlock replied brusquely. The maid was an older woman, used to his ways, and seemed unbothered by the dismissal. He waited for her to close the door behind her before he stripped out of his wet clothes and to step into the hot water. There was no one around to hear him when he sighed with relief, sinking into the water and reaching for the bar of soap and the cloth waiting beside the tub. Scrubbing himself off, he watched the water cloud before standing, lifting the pitcher of cooling water to pour over his head and body before stepping out onto the mat, drying himself before pulling on a robe and striding out of the room and down the hall to his own chambers. He did not emerge for dinner and the only sign he gave of his presence was a note delivered to his wife's chambers and a short conversation with Mrs. Hudson about having a carriage ready for the next day. 

 

Irene took her supper in the parlor and with the plate came a folded note.

_Tomorrow, I plan to make a trip to Paris._

_Please be prepared to leave by eight in the morning._

_The maids will wake you if need be._

_I have informed the staff to have a carriage and a meal prepared._

_Sherlock Holmes_

It was almost amusing, the brevity and formality of his note. However, Paris was worth a long carriage ride with her sullen husband; she would simply bring something to read with her.

 

When he climbed into the carriage, she was already waiting, calmly reading a novel in French. His immediate thought was that she had arrived early to irritate him, but dismissed the idea as foolish. He was correct.

The journey was silent and utterly uneventful. He sat, eyes closed, touring his mind palace as she read her novel, occasionally chuckling. Though each chuckle made its way into his mind palace as he sat, he did not stir, nor open his eyes and give her the satisfaction of seeing he noticed her amusement. It was almost refreshing, finding another person as utterly petty as he.

The very moment the carriage stopped, he was standing, a hand on the door, opening it before the footman had an opportunity to do so, and stepped out into the Parisian street. He did not pause to wait for her, only reached out a hand for the footman to hand him his walking stick (he did) before beginning to walk purposefully towards a building marked 'Morgue'. When his wife emerged from the carriage, gracefully accepting the footman's hand and opening her parasol to shade her fair complexion from the sun, he was already at the door. She did not rush to follow, only strolled in the same direction, a careless air to her movements. It was only once they were inside did her face cool into an emotionless mask, lips tightening microscopically in displeasure. Sherlock went from body to body on display, inspecting it, deducing, and eventually looking satisfied before moving onto the next. It took perhaps an hour altogether, as disgruntled Parisians moved around and past the rapt Englishman blocking the slow flow of traffic through the exhibition of death.

After reaching the end of the bodies, he called a policeman over and began giving him the details of each death in slow, rather poorly-accented French. This took at least another hour because he had to convince, remind, and declare to the police that he was not a criminal, merely a detective. It took some deducing of the policemen and their private lives before he was believed and allowed to be released.

By the time this was all over, Irene was quietly furious. In the street beside the morgue, she turned to Sherlock Holmes and asked in a tone that might have been conversational if not for the murder in here eyes if he had any other plans for the day or was the morgue to be their only attraction. 

"It was quite interesting, wasn't it?" he asked, though whether he was ignoring her angry gaze or merely oblivious was unclear.

"As Paris is a cultural center of the world, I was planning on getting some shopping done," she replied.

"That sounds terribly dull." 

"Regardless, I just spent two hours in a morgue. Will you be accompanying me or will I be scandalously un-escorted through the streets of a foreign city?"

"I have no interest in looking at fripperies, thank you. You will have to come another day with a maid or some other companion."

She did not laugh aloud, but the corner of her full mouth quirked in amusement, at the very idea he dictated what she would and would not do. Instead, she reopened the parasol and began to saunter down the street towards one of the dress shops along the way. 

Inside were silks, satins, velvets and muslins, cotton and linen, lace and ribbon. Something about the way she stood, perhaps the curve of her neck or the straightness of her spine, attracted a sales woman immediately, despite the fact that there were at least two other women browsing fabrics, waiting to be waited upon.

"A pleasure, madame, is there anything I can help you with today?"

"A few things," Irene responded, offering the woman a slow smile.

"We'll get you into one of the fitting rooms immediately, of course. Would you or your husband care for refreshment? Tea perhaps?"

"Tea sounds lovely, thank you."

The other ladies flocked over when the tea came out, all the women sharing gossip as they drank tea and nibbled on delicate French pastries. On a cushioned bench near the door, Sherlock sat brooding, ignoring the tea and the staff pointedly as he glowered at the room in general. He was still there when the tea things were cleared up and Irene wandered the shop selecting fabrics. He was still there when she was guided into a side room to have her measurements taken. By the time she emerged, paying the woman at the counter in shining franc coins, the foul mood had evolved into a sullen aura about him that seemed to sour the air.

When she strolled from the shop and into another, a cobbler, passerby began to veer around him. By the time she was finished at the cobbler and several other shops, his face was tight and his lips pressed white together.

"Are you hungry at all?" Irene turned to ask her husband. Her parasol cast shadows over her face in patterns of lace, obscuring whether her face conveyed any more than the words did. 

"Not at all," he replied, and the silken tone to his voice warned of the temper beneath.

"The carriage ride home is a bit long, I wanted to be sure you wouldn't be hungry on the way."

"Kind of you." He clipped the words into three clean, sharp syllables. "To consider me."

"But of course," she waved a hand dismissively. "Let us go back to the carriage."

 It wasn't until they returned to the estate that he incited the argument. 

 


	7. The Quarrel

They sat across from one another at the improbably long table, servants fluttering back and forth between them to serve and clear dishes of food.

"Mrs. Holmes," he began coolly, sipping at his soup. "Did you have any high fevers as a young child?"

The flash of confusion was covered almost as soon as it raised itself on her face.

"No, I was quite healthy as a child. It is fortunate that I escaped most major illnesses."

"Have you ever suffered a head trauma?"

Something was going on. His tone was too cool, too conversational. After quietly seething the entire carriage ride home, it seemed unlikely that his temper had faded. Instead of reacting, she mirrored his actions, his tone.

"No, I have been fortunate to be free of most injuries as well."

"You are an educated woman, yes? Able to comprehend agreements, both verbal and written?"

"Of course."

So that was it. He was going to actually confront her about strolling off, expecting him to follow, which he had. Stifling a smirk, she signalled the servant that she was finished with her soup.

"So when I told you earlier that you would have to come back to Paris another day, you understood what I meant when I made that statement? You are not, in fact, some kind of idiot?"

"I can assure you, dear husband, that I understood your words and their meaning perfectly."

She raised her eyes to meet his across the long table, noting that the servants had vanished from the room and the doors, formerly open on both sides, were shut.

"What about the vows you made before God less than a week ago, with family and society as a witness? Did you understand those as well?"

"Quite." She lifted a knife and serenely began to cut her meat into smaller portions.

"I can only assume you are incompetent then," Sherlock said. "Because I clearly heard you swear before God and witnesses to love, honor, and _obey_."

"Did you?"

He flinched microscopically.

"If you recall correctly, Mr. Holmes, I believe there were two other words before obey, were there not? Words you also used in your vows? Love and honor, you said. Interesting, as ordering your wife around as though she were a servant isn't very honorable, is it? Nor is taking her to a place as scandalous as a morgue. You cannot simply twist words to your manner of thinking, dear husband."

She lifted a piece of meat to her mouth and began to chew calmly, watching her husband across the table, pale and furious. When he said nothing, she spoke again.

"I'm feeling rather tired, actually. I believe I will retire early this evening."

As she began to rise, the words tore themselves from his mouth in a snarl that left no illusions about his feelings on the matter.

"I will not have you leading me around like some sort of tamed animal. This is my house you live in, and my name you have taken."

She blinked slowly at him.

"Mr. Holmes I have found that the moment one has to assert that they are in charge of a situation is the moment they realize that they are out of their depth."

And with that, she was gone.

Replaying the conversation over several times did little to calm his raging emotions. He picked out several times that he had been baited, several times that he should have held his temper and had not. Damn that woman, she had gotten the better of him again. 

 Pacing and fuming, he stalked the length of the dining room for an hour before vanishing into the cellar where he kept a few experiments. He was not in his bedchamber until the early hours of the morning and upon his bedside table sat another note in cream-colored paper.

_Dear husband,_

_I am feeling rather under the weather and will be remaining in bed today rather than joining you on the scheduled outing for today. Do enjoy the lecture at the university, I'm sure it will be enlightening._

_Yours,_

_Irene Holmes._


	8. Lectures and Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attends a lecture while his wife remains home.

The lecture was not until early afternoon so he got a few scant hours of sleep before dressing and taking the carriage to the French university. The professor spoke on blood, mostly. Circulation was discovered within the last thirty years, so experiments were still being done, data still being taken and reviewed. This particular professor was studying the process of clotting and scabbing in wounds.

This was interesting enough, as he tracked the healing process and make notes and took samples of the scab formation and slow deterioration as the wound mended itself. However, the more interesting part were his studies on the behavior of blood outside the human body--how it responded to heat, if it would clot while not on the body, how cooling it, placing it on other skin, or applying it to another wound might affect the behavior and clotting processes. Sherlock took a few notes in his notebook, mostly things to experiment on his own and changed he might make, as well as data he found relevant. It was refreshing to be amongst other intelligent men, men of science who did not insist on trying to best him at every turn. Intelligent discussion and debate, trading of theories and opinions, these were the men he felt most comfortable among. He himself had a greater intellect than any of the men present, but it was the closest he could get to an intellectual equal without talking to his brother.

Caught up in his thoughts, Sherlock found himself flashing back to a disturbingly intense dream that had woken him mid-morning. _He had been in a lab, something like the one he had at home, all shining metal and the smells of burnt chemicals. On a table, lay Irene Adler--no it was Irene Holmes now--nude and surrounded by tools. He had lifted a scalpel to begin the dissection when her eyes flew open, holding his gaze._

_"Terribly sorry," she'd said, not sounding sorry in the least. "You haven't the tools you need."_

_He had found at that moment that she was correct, and not only that, he too was nude, his tools all vanished, the lab bare and cold. She'd looked him up and down, assessing, and reached out to pull him down to the table._

_"Perhaps there is another scientific endeavor we might accomplish."_

The dream had ended with those words, a sudden fading to black and he'd sat up in bed gasping for air, unsure why he felt so unsettled and additionally why the blood in his lower region had all been redirected to his groin. 

He came to the realization that someone was speaking to him and he looked up, feigning interest.

"Pardon?"

The man repeated a long string of French and Sherlock paused, forcing his brain away from the dream and onto the man's speech, concentrating before he answered in somewhat more broken French. It was an inquiry about his thoughts on the talk and though his French needed a little work, he got his point across and traded ideas with the other man for a few minutes.

The hall cleared out and Sherlock was one of the last to leave, checking he had written down everything he wanted to. While still near Paris, he walked the streets, thinking deeply about the lecture. His mind kept wandering back to his wife. Between the dream and the quarrel, she had managed a strange mastery of him that was unusual and unfair to boot. He knew so very little about her except observations--ambidextrous, fluent in at least two languages, excellent horsewoman, educated, well-bred, stubborn, clever, devious, used to getting her way, precise, ambitious, he could go on. 

"Perhaps it's women as a whole," he muttered to himself, startling a peddler selling flowers on the corner. "I'll need to understand women."

After a moment of thought, he returned to the carriage, already mentally composing several letters to various personages. If he was to be master of his own home, he first needed to be master of his wife. And to do that, he needed to understand her, meaning he required more data. 

 

He was not at dinner, but neither was she. Actually beginning to feel a bit ill, Irene took her meal in her room and ate it absently as she read one of the books from the estate's small library. She did not expect him to check on her or inquire after her absence, and she had a bath drawn for herself, leaning her head back against the now-warm copper tub as the water warmed her to her bones.

Forgoing dinner entirely, he spent the evening in his office drafting letters to people known by his wife. Chiefly, her parents. After discarding several drafts, he managed to construct a convincing blend of lies and began again.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Adler,_

_I hope that you do not find this letter intrusive, but I am planning a surprise for Irene and as you know her best, I wanted your opinion on what would please her the most. I wish to purchase a small estate on my return and though I am sure she will want to decorate a good portion of it herself, I wanted to begin stocking a library and parlour for her enjoyment._

_If you have a list of subjects that she is interested in, please enlighten me. We have only been married a few short days and I already desire nothing more than to make her happy for the rest of my life. Is there an instrument she plays or a particular hobby she enjoys that I might be able to accommodate? Her horsemanship is excellent, her French flawless, and her beauty is unsurpassed. I wish to know everything about her. Are there any tales from her childhood that might inform me about how she has bloomed into the beautiful English rose that I have married? What are some of her favorite dishes, that I might be sure the cook I employ can make them? Does she have a favored dressmaker in London that I might seek out to have things made for her?_

_Your daughter is an endless delight and I thank you for the gift of her presence in my life. I beg of you, tell her not of our correspondence that I might surprise and delight her with how our new home is suited to her manner and comfort._

_Most Sincerely Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

Scanning over the letter, he scowled. The man who wrote it was a delighted new husband eager to please his wife, precisely what parents of a recently wedded daughter might hope for. He was laying it on rather thick, but any information about his wife would enable him to gain perspective and from that, an upper hand. He wrote out several alterations of the same letter and had them addressed to her four female cousins, another to the elderly aunt that had attended the wedding, and a final one to the maid of honor. Information was power and having baited several hooks, he merely needed to wait.

Folding the letters and addressing them, he tucked the packet of letters into his coat pocket and hung the coat beside the study door. This covered specific details about his wife, but more data was always welcome. He needed an insight into the nature of women, a general supposition he could use to base theories and hypotheses on. The questions he had in mind, however, were not often discussed in polite company. Creasing his brow, he extinguished the lamp in his study and paced the front hall, thinking, before climbing the stairs and opening the door to the room with the big copper tub. He turned to ring the bell by the door that would summon a servant when a throat being cleared attracted his attention.

Turning, he found the room (and the tub) already occupied by one Irene Holmes.

"Can I help you?" her nudity didn't seem to bother her in the slightest and so he ignored it as well.

"I was about to have a bath drawn."

"Well as you can see I have already done that."

The thin layer of foam covering the surface of the water obscured her naked form, preserving little modesty. He said nothing, one brow flicking up and then back down.

"Was your lecture enjoyable?" she asked. There was no mention of the previous quarrel. Had he not known better he would have thought she had forgotten it entirely. This was not her nature, however. Though he had only known her a short period of time, he recognized in her the same stubbornness and strategy he found in his own mind. If he brought up the quarrel then he was not only dwelling on it rather than dismissing it, he was also reminding her of her own victory.

"It will certainly fuel some future experiments," he responded. "I do hope that you are feeling better?"

"My headache persists and I think I may be getting a sore throat."

"How unfortunate. Has the staff been sufficiently meeting your needs?"

"Quite."

It was amusing, she mused, how much he took his cues from her. He was learning rapidly that she played a game and he was desperate to not allow her any small victories. A chess player that could not sacrifice pawns for the sake of more powerful pieces would not remain in the game long, she thought. His thoughts must have been along the same lines because the next word from his mouth were,

"Do you play any chess?"

Her mouth curved into an involuntary smile and she raised her eyes to meet his, lifting an arm from the tub so that the top of one pale breast peeked above the waterline. Setting her arm on the rim, she rested her chin upon it, looking at him contemplatively.

"I'm not very good."

A lie. Excellent.

His smile was also involuntary, and nearly as predatory as hers had been.

"Perhaps when you are feeling better, we might play a game?"

"Perhaps."

A long pause that might have been awkward, but they were both sizing the other up, one nude and in the bath, the other fully clothed and leaning on the frame of the door.

"I will leave you to your bath."

She did not thank him, only nodded before allowing herself to sink back into the tub.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

 


	9. Consulting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an attempt to learn more about women in general, Sherlock does some consulting work. In the same vein, Irene looks more into her husband's affairs.

By morning Irene felt a great deal better and already contemplating chess with her husband, how many games she would allow him to win and by how much. He already underestimated her and trouncing him neatly was going to ruin the slow plans she had to form his image of her. He needed to see her as too clever to dismiss but not clever enough to scheme around him. She needed to represent herself as typical woman he imagined all females to be with their unreasonable emotions and frivolous interests to allow her private time and rooms to pursue these without bothering him. It was essential, however, that she did not appear to silly or frivolous; he had seen her at work, her intelligence and wit. If she played too much into what he imagined a woman to be, he would not believe it for a moment. 

At breakfast, he was gone and her plate held a note folded neatly into three sections and sealed with wax.

 

_Mrs. Holmes,_

_It has come to my attention that you have no methods of entertainment during my absences. I recall that music is one of your hobbies and have had the conservatory aired out. The harpsichord will be re-tuned late this morning, after which you are welcome to use it at your leisure. A few estate matters have come up and I need to consult my bank's correspondent in Paris. If you require any additional distractions, the housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, will attend to them. If your health improves, tomorrow's itinerary includes a visit to a winery owned by an acquaintance of my father's._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

One side of her mouth twitched, pulling the rest along with it into a half-smile. His attention being drawn to her lack of entertainment was likely due to concern of the sorts of things she would get involved with if bored rather than concern for the boredom itself. Still, he was correct in music being one of her interests, though 'passion' was more accurate than 'hobby'. She played the harpsichord and piano both since childhood and had begun vocal training around the same time, revealing a voice her teachers deemed either mezzo soprano or contralto, depending on the teacher. Refusing to be touched by his efforts to find something she would enjoy, especially considering his motives, she signalled one of the maids setting out breakfast before her.

"Where is the conservatory?"

"Down the hall, madame. Third door on the left."

Nodding her acknowledgement, Irene breakfasted on primarily tea and a soft cooked egg with a rasher of bacon beside it, thinking all the while. Her husband's preparedness indicated that there was something particular he wished for her to not discover, as she had spent time in the house without provided entertainment before. The question was, what was it that he was determined that she not know? 

Down the hall a flat note was being pressed down on the harpsichord repeatedly. A pause, the hum of a tuning fork, and another pause before the note was played again, this time only a little off its intended key. Another pause, another hum. Rising from the table, she strode out into the hall and instead of turning left, turned right. Logically, he would wish to keep her away from the room he wanted to be kept private. She could have been offered a great number of things as her hobbies varied greatly, but music was his choice.

Wandering into the foyer, she looked about before climbing the stairs and walking past the door to her chambers onward to the door of his. It did not creak when opened, and she crept in, shutting the door behind her. 

It was dark, long curtains in damask or velvet blocking out the sunlight from two separate windows. She did not hesitate to tug one open, letting the warm sunlight spill onto the massive Oriental rug covering a good deal of the floor. Its patterns in red and gold were intricate and beautiful and she paused for a moment to appreciate it before turning her mind to the task at hand--determining what he didn't want her to see.

The first thing that came to mind was the state of the place. The maids hadn't been through to clean yet so she was able to see his clothes crumpled on the floor from the previous day as well as a dressing gown tossed over the back of a chair. There were no nightclothes to be found and she chuckled to think that the tight-laced Sherlock Holmes slept nude. The bedclothes were rumpled as well and the pitcher and basin on the table beside the dresser were both half-full, a cloth he had likely used to clean his face dangling precariously from the nearest corner of the table. His hairbrush and the brush to clean his teeth were beside the washbasin neatly beside it, a sharp contrast to the rest of the room. After inspecting his wardrobe and peering both under the bed and into the drawers of any and all pieces of furniture within the room, she left, being sure to tug the curtain back shut.

Out in the hall, she could hear the harpsichord being tunes still and pausing next to her chamber door, she entered, retrieving a French novel from the bedside table. Opening it to where she left off, she strolled along with absentminded ease. Several servants passed her as she meandered up and down the upstairs hall, down the stairs through the sitting room, drawing room, library, dining room, and foyer. The careless stroll of someone with nowhere in particular to be, she continued her walk right to the door of Sherlock's study. Looking up from her book idly, as though pondering a point made by the author, she determined that there were no servants about to watch her and she slipped through the door, shutting it softly behind her. 

The book she tucked in a pocket of her gown and took in the room. Unlike the bedroom, the curtains were open, though the state of untidiness was much more severe. She suspected that the servants were banned from cleaning it without permission from the layer of dust on the mantle where a magnifying glass rested against the brim of a ridiculous checked hunting hat. An armchair by the fireplace had a small table on one side, free of dust but cluttered with objects. 

A pipe and tin of tobacco sat atop it in the center, a small box of lucifers underneath the bowl. Underneath these were papers, scattered and marked in various colors of ink. As she walked around to the front of the chair, she noted a drawer in the front of the small table and pulled it open, revealing a metal tin and box of syringes, their needles gleaming enough to assure her of their sharpness. She pulled the tin from the drawer and opened it carefully, revealing a fine white powder. A hesitant sniff, careful not to inhale anything, revealed very little except that it was not opium. Behind the tin in the drawer were several clean test tubes. She tucked the tin of powder back into the drawer and closed it, renewing her search. The fireplace was full of ash and a kettle hung in it above the grate where logs had once sat. The lid revealed water within it--uninteresting. The mantle's layer of dust revealed nothing except the puddled wax of several melted candles and the objects she had seen on it before. The glass and hat were no more interesting upon closer examination and she moved her attention to the center of the room where a desk stood solidly, a war general bearing the scars of a few moves, a scorch mark or two, and the desperate need of a good polish. 

The top was scattered with papers, some news clippings, some journal articles. Filtering through them she discovered her husband's taste for mystery. A few of the clippings mentioned a case solved by the London Police with the aid of a consultant, unnamed. Writing paper bore nearly illegible scrawls of letter combinations that she eventually ascertained to be some sort of chemical formula. It was only when she opened a few drawers that things became interesting.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

In Paris, Sherlock Holmes found himself in a bit of a conundrum. He knew precisely what he sought but did not know how to obtain it without attracting attention--memorable attention as he was a gentleman of rank and clearly not of the country. In London at his own home he had a variety of disguises at his disposal, but this was not London. For a little more than a franc, he obtained some worker's clothing from a pawn shop. Something rough but not so rough that he would be deemed bad for business. Renting a room for a few hours, he informed the club owner that he required time to rest after his journey. He had tea sent for, and a pitcher of water and a basin to refresh himself as well as a volume from the club's library. Sending the maid off with a silver coin and another for the owner, he informed them that he was not to be disturbed and if he ran over his allotted time, he would gladly pay for it in double. 

Concluding that there was no arguing with this English gentleman, they left him to his tea and book. Levering a chair underneath the door handle and checking twice that it was locked, Sherlock stripped himself of his finery and draped his clothes over the chair, pulling on the worn workman's garb. Mussing his hair, he covered his head with a brimmed cap and slipped out of the window. Once out, he dusted himself lightly with ash from the pile behind the club and then splashed his face with water from the rain barrel, managing to leave traces of the ash. Inspecting his reflection in the barrel, he deemed it decent enough. Widening his stance, he made his walk into a rolling gait, a sailor's legs used to moving boards beneath his feet. Clicking his tongue a few times within his mouth, he muttered a few phrases to himself, testing his Cockney accent before altering it with a bit of a rasp, adding a lower timbre to it. Once again satisfied, he strolled down to the banks of the Seine where a riverboat unloaded cargo. 

His French wasn't very good and the addition of the rasping Cockney sailor's voice added to the effect.

"Où est le bordel?"


	10. Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Sherlock and Irene Holmes make discoveries regarding their spouse.

She read quickly, making a mental note to return to the study as soon as possible for further investigation. The drawer held a number of books and papers which she skimmed before turning her attention to the wastebasket. There were a few letters drafted and then crumpled, two broken pens, an empty ink bottle with a crack running up one side, and too many scraps with formulae or notes on them to count. One ear listening for any approaching footsteps, she drew one of the letter drafts from the wastebasket and used the pen on the desk to write down the titles of the two volumes in the desk drawer and to summarize the contents of the papers that joined them.

Careful to replace the pen precisely where she had lifted it from on the desk and with a final sweep of the room to ensure that she had left no trace of her investigations, she blew on the fresh ink to dry it before folding the note in her pocket, drawing the novel back out, and slipping into the hall where she resumed her stroll around the house. The repetitive notes growing closer to being in tune reverberated through the house and she felt a familiar itch in her fingers to play music. It had been weeks since she'd touched the keys of a harpsichord or really warmed up her voice. By the time she had made another full cycle of the house's corridors, the notes were ringing true and she drifted into the music room to watch the little greying man turn the strings a little tighter here and there, adjusting the notes so that they matched perfectly with the pitch pipe on which he blew. 

"You are the lady of the house?" he asked without looking up.

"I am," she replied.

"Would you like to test it before I go?"

In lieu of answering the question, she sat at the little bench and closed her eyes, thinking of something to play before playing the opening notes of _Blackwell Dock_. Proceeding through the song from memory, she found that the instrument was perfectly tuned and wondered how it was that her husband had acquired the man in the middle of the French countryside.

"Is it to your liking, Madame?"

"It is perfect, thank you."

Giving a short little bow, the man exited the room, closing the door behind him. 

After playing several pieces, she took the paper from her pocket to look at the notes she'd taken. However, she was met with the wrong side and instead of turning it over, she skimmed her husband's script, eyebrows raising as she did so.

"Oh Mr. Holmes," she practically purred. "You've absolutely no idea what you're getting yourself into."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Once in the bordel/pleasurehouse/whore's den, Sherlock fumbled around with the cockney accent, asking,

"Parlez-vous anglais?" over and over until a redhead smiled at him.

"One of our boys from across the pond, eh?"

"You speak English, then?" he asked. The cockney accent felt much more natural with his mother tongue than with French. 

"It's my native tongue."

_Educated, middle to upper class, used to money, comfortable around men, confident, had three customers that day so far, a baguette and some cheese for breakfast as well as an apple and some coffee with milk._

"Well thank god for that. How much?"

"Why don't we go upstairs where it's more private, and we can discuss price there?"

Shifting her shoulders slightly, she exposed more freckled cleavage than had previously spilled from the blue and white dress. It was probably meant to entice him and he played the part, ogling her bosom and nodding. People were so predictable.

Once in a little room fitted with a bed, chair, and little else, she unlaced her bodice, exposing her breasts in their entirety.

"What is it that you want, sir?"

"And all of this is private?" he asked.

"Of course it is, love."

"I need to know how to pleasure a woman."

Sitting on the bed, she lifted her skirts.

"I think you can pleasure one just fine."

"No not you," he snapped. "My wife. She has every knowledge about my anatomy and how to..." he cleared his throat "make my body respond. I wish to know how to do the same for her."

"So you won't be wanting to be making with the amorous congress?" She pronounced the words perfectly, further confirming his deductions about her past station. 

"No."

"Well then," she motioned to the chair. "Sit down. I'll still be wanting payment."

He handed her several coins and when she raised an eyebrow, added a few more until the brow lowered. Pocketing the money, she hefted a hand underneath a plump breast.

"Once you get past kissing her, the breasts are a good place to start. You want to hold them gently but firmly and stimulate the nipple, like this."

She demonstrated twisting, pulling gently, and rubbing her thumb over the pink flesh of her areola and nipple. 

"Kneading feels nice as well, but not to hard, not unless she seems to like it."

"How will I know if she likes it?"

The woman glanced at him momentarily.

"Her face, if she moves towards you or makes any affirmative noises."

"After that, you can proceed to her rump if you wish, some women like it and others don't. Same idea there, kneading, firm but gentle. Then we come to her private bits."

Lifting her skirt again, the woman exposed herself, spreading her legs. Startled, Sherlock's jaw tightened and he fought to keep his surprise from showing. It was unseemly that he was here in the first place and now a woman was exposing her genitals to him? This was an endeavor of science, not a trip for pleasure and so he swallowed his discomfort and nodded to show he was still listening.

"These folds here, they're nice to touch, but you want to wait until it's good and wet down here."

"Why?"

"It means she's enjoying it. And once you've touched a bit all in here, you want to find her little rosebud, right here." She fingered a bit of her flesh, pink and slightly raised, indeed like a rosebud.

"You want to touch here but gentle, very gentle and not all at once. Slow at first, see how she reacts, what she likes. And once you put yourself in her, make sure you keep with  touching that. There's another spot in her, you can reach it as long as you're not terribly small below the belt. Angle up a bit towards her navel and if you hit it, you'll know. Her reaction will be very pleasant."

Nodding, he filed and processed the information as quickly as possible. If his wife could undo him so easily, he wanted the same knowledge she had. The less of an upper hand she had, the better. Yes, she was clever and he appreciated that, but far too used to getting her own way. He was master of the house and she was not going to run him as easily as she did a stallion or a hound. No, this would be different.

"Do you have any questions?"

He did, actually, and he asked them in the same Cockney accent that he'd worn throughout, its sound so unlike his usual voice that it almost made asking easier, as though it wasn't him asking at all. She answered each one and at the end when he had no more questions and she had lowered her skirts and re-laced her bodice, she held her hand out again.

"You ran over the usual time."

Scowling at her, he dropped the coins into her hand.

"You have a nice day now. I'm sure your wife will enjoy what you've learned here in France."

He did not tip his hat at her when he left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was midafternoon when he returned to the house and upon entering, he heard the music of the harpsichord being played as he stepped into the hall. Satisfied that his wife was adequately distracted, he handed his coat and walking stick off to the footman and retreated to his study where he lit a pipe. As he studied the materials on his desk, he sensed that something was amiss. Studying his mantle he found it just as dusty and all his books and papers were where he'd left them. Wrinkling his brow, he opened one of his desk drawers, slipping his fingers in to catch the feather he rigged to fall in. Nothing fell and as he opened it the rest of the way, there was the piece of goose down tucked among his papers. 

Someone had been snooping into his affairs.

 
    
    
      
    


	11. Vineyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both parties thinking they have the upper hand, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes attend a party, dance, and try to gather information.

At dinner, they both had their best manners on display. He inquired after her enjoyment of the harpsichord and she of his trip to Paris and visit with the bank correspondent. They were so polite and charming that the servants, usually wary around the pair after only a few days, seemed to relax, seeming to accept that the new master and lady were beginning to get along. Shouting was one thing, but this was how the upper class generally acted. This was what they expected.

"If you are not too tired of it, perhaps you could play me something after supper?" Sherlock asked before taking a bite or whatever Mrs. Hudson had told the cook to make. To be honest, it didn't matter to him. Food served the purpose of providing energy for his mind and body and unless it was something truly exceptional, he rarely noticed what he was eating. 

"Oh I could never grow tired of the harpsichord, husband." He was far too pleasant, far too polite. He must have known something, or think he knew something.

"Do you play any other instruments? I know so little about you."

She did not smile, though she recognized the question as one probing the same depths as the letters he had sent out. 

"The piano as well, yes, and voice. The harpsichord is lovely though."

"It was my great-grandmother's," Sherlock told her. "My mother's grandmother, actually. She adored music and was quite accomplished at the harpsichord."

"Remarkable that it's condition is so good, given its age."

"Indeed." He took a sip of wine, then she did as well. 

"But I'm being rude," she smiled. "Have you any musical inclinations?"

"The violin. It helps me think, and from time to time I've performed on it for small gatherings. Nothing large, of course."

"Perhaps you can play for me?"

"It is back in England, I'm afraid."

"What a pity," she said, and meant it.

"When we return home, you must remind me and I'll play you something."

After supper she played the harpsichord and sang for him, something a hair more complex than the typical Englishwoman would play but nothing so complicated that he would think her a master. No, she was saving that revelation for a later date. It would not do for the good Mr. Holmes to know as much about her as he thought he did. And a woman did need to have her secrets.

"That was excellent," he said when she had finished the song, even forcing himself to clap, though he winced slightly as he did. Letting her think that she had the upper ground was key. She would get comfortable and in that comfort he could find weakness.

"Oh hardly, but thank you for your kindness." To be honest, all the niceties were making her feel slightly sick to her stomach. 

"Have you been shown around the estate? It's occurred to me with all of our outings that I haven't shown you all the rooms."

"That's hardly necessary," she replied quickly--just quickly enough to indicate that she had something to hide.

"No," he smiled at her, repressing the surge of triumph, "I insist."

And so he took her through the house, pointing out notable features in each room with a raised candle as the sunlight disappeared over the horizon. 

 _He was better at concealing his emotions than the average person_ , she noted. But his body gave him away, the subtle hints that she had trained herself to look for, the things that courtly manners didn't disguise. Glances, the way a body leaned or carried weight, the curve of a wrist, the slightest twitch of lip or brow. As he paused before his bedchamber, he looked at her.

"You have not yet seen my bedchamber," he remarked. "Would you like to?"

There it was then. He knew, somehow, that she had been into his bedroom.

"I don't think that's necessary," she replied, lowering her gaze as though she was afraid of something.

 _False modesty,_ Sherlock noted. _She is quite the actress, my wife. Still, I don't want to contemplate the consummation of the marriage again until it's truly necessary. Before the honeymoon has ended, I will._

"If that is what you wish," he nodded. "It is growing dark. Perhaps you are tired?"

"I am, thank you."

"May I escort you to your room?"

She hesitated a moment, unsure if the invitation was for an escort or for an evening companion but the moment passed in an instant as she remembered who precisely she had married. No, this was only a walk.

"Of course."

He offered his arm and she took it, allowing him to lead her back to her own room. 

"Tomorrow there is a party in the afternoon and evening at a vineyard, if you wish to go." He had mentioned this a day or so previous, but who knew if she had even read the note?

"That sounds delightful, thank you."

"Goodnight then, Irene." Taking her hand, he kissed the back and nodded politely before turning back down the hall. 

Stepping into her room, Irene closed the door and pressed her back against it, heaving a sigh of relief. 

In his own room, Sherlock did the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, he slept in until almost noon and was woken by the strains of harpsichord music.

 _She really is rather good,_ he mused sleepily before pulling on a dressing gown and washing his face. He could have had a servant shave him but he didn't want to bother with it only to be nicked by some silly French bumpkin who had only played at being a valet. When he was back in England he'd see his regular barber, but until then he would have to suffer through doing it himself.

The music accompanied him through the careful scraping of his cheeks, chin, and neck. As he was delicately touching up his sideburns and checking to make sure that the remains of stubble on his upper lip were thoroughly eradicated, there was a knock at the door. Wiping his face clean, he pulled a robe on; he preferred sleeping nude.

"Yes, come in."

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared.

"I understand that you and Mrs. Holmes will be absent for dinner?"

"That's likely, yes."

"When should I have the carriage brought around?"

"An hour."

Mrs. Hudson made a shocked sort of noise and he sighed loudly before raising his eyebrow, waiting for her to vocalize her concern.

"Won't Mrs. Holmes want more time to get ready?"

"I can't imagine why."

"She'll need her hair dressed and her dress brushed and all of her face paint and jewelry done properly," Mrs. Hudson sounded nearly offended at the idea of a woman managing all the preparations in only an hour's time. "And she hasn't had the midday meal yet."

"I am quite sure she will manage."

He mused about the house tour the previous evening. She was calm, surprisingly so, and he wondered if she thought she had managed to get away with her snooping into his private office without notice. Yes, she had a few moments where he could read her, but in general, she had kept the same manner he had come to expect from her--arch and calm. It was almost enjoyable, having to work to read the reactions of another person. 

Mrs. Hudson wanted to say something, he could see it in the way she pursed her lips and then thinned them. Instead of responding, he turned back to the mirror and inspected his neck for stray hairs. She left, closing the door behind her.

He wasn't the least bit surprised when she was waiting for him in the carriage, hair in an elaborate twist of braids pinned to the back of her head covered by something pale and lacy tied with ribbons. She was dressed in something blue which he assumed was in fashion because Irene Ad--Holmes would be seen in nothing less. He did not ask if she was ready; she was already sitting in the carriage. He did not remark upon her appearance, she was a woman and doubtless already knew how she looked. Besides that, he had to conserve his patience for the party guests. Social niceties didn't come naturally to him and wasting some of his patience on a woman who was attached to him regardless of how he spoke was a waste of time. Provided he didn't besmirch the family's good name it would be a perfectly adequate outing. He could be charming when he wanted to--some things were necessary to appease his ever-nagging parents--but it took effort and thought to drag up the appropriate memories and knowledge. Hardly a reasonable way to use his brainpower. Closing his eyes, he sorted through the series of rooms in his memory palace until he found the cupboard in the farthest room, dusty and with squeaky hinges, where he kept all the social niceties he would need. The process of dusting them off and familiarizing himself with them took most of the ride. 

 When the carriage finally stopped, he leapt out and offered his hand to help her down. The surprise he expected to flash across her face was significantly less than he anticipated and he brushed away the thread of disappointment the lack of response gave him. The warm, sweet smile was so unlike her that he might have looked properly shocked for a moment before he inclined his head at her, a perfect gentleman.

They were announced by the servant of the host and the man glided over to greet them, the picture of unhurried luxury. 

"Holmes, oui?"

"Oui," Irene replied, and when the host met her eyes, something sparked in his gaze.

"My daughter Marguerite, she is just your age. You must meet her, Lady Holmes."

Sherlock was quite certain that all three of them knew that he was not a lord, nor Irene a lady, but his wife didn't correct the Frenchman who was beaming at her and so he said nothing. _Perhaps the patience will not last as long as usual,_ he mused, but only forced a smile.

"Go along and meet her," he said and Irene smiled back at him, hers much more convincing.

"I'll be back shortly, darling. Do go find someone to talk to."

"Of course."

He scanned the open garden and saw the trellises of the vineyard out in the field beyond its walls. It was a good-sized piece of land and judging by his dress and actions, the host--Monsieur Rosseau--was an old bachelor. Had he a wife, she would be bustling about meeting everyone and would have doubtless greeted guests with her husband. He had a daughter, suggesting that there had been a wife at one point--an illegitimate daughter was hardly worth claiming, though one never knew with the French. He had a good name still and held parties that people of good standing attended, suggesting there was no divorce or suicide or any other such embarrassment. Death then, probably childbirth or illness. That sorted, he scanned the guests again, attempting to determine how to mingle. The group of ladies was not an option until his wife was within sight and the group of young gentlemen currently playing some form of game with cards looked far too apt to burst into frivolity for him to join and keep his patience. There perhaps, a few gentlemen lounging on several garden chairs and talking. At least one had been to a university and the other two had the looks of decent schooling. An intelligent conversation he could manage.

They were discussing a scientist--Pasteur--and his recent experiments while making occasional remarks about their wives. 

"I beg your pardon," Sherlock said, "But if I may, you seem to be ignoring a very important possibility."

The men turned to listen and by the time he was halfway through his statement, one of the men looked properly embarrassed and the others, delighted. 

By the time Irene laid her hand on his arm, his was explaining in careful French that germ theory was the only logical answer to a significant number of illnesses. He had a harder time introducing her, but he managed and she was gracious and charming to all the gentlemen in the circle. She said something witty and they all chuckled before she told him in tones too gentle to be hers that she was going to to walk through the vineyard and would he like to join her. 

"But of course, my dear."

By the time they were in the vineyard, her hand on his arm, he was scowling, out of sight of the other guests.

"Is there something you require? I was under the impression this gathering was the sort of thing you preferred and I seem to have managed to find other educated people to keep the dullness at bay."

"A walk in the vineyard with your wife gives them an excuse to try and construct counterarguments. Besides that, when we return I will be able to introduce you to Mademoiselle Rosseau and thus the rest of the women at the party."

He shuffled mentally through the rules and procedures he'd reviewed on the ride there and instead of scowling as he wanted to, smiled his best charming gentleman smile. If nothing else, the interactions between his wife and other women would give him insight. Men he would see to later, though he had no idea why she would want to talk to any of the young fops playing cards or the high-minded men he had conversed with.

"Anything to please you, dear."

She nearly dropped the drink she was holding and internally, Sherlock smiled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 _Anything to please you, dear?_ she thought, managing not to spill her drink. He had something in mind. What it was, she hadn't determined yet. Maybe he was trying to throw her off in the hopes that she would reveal something. She thought she had provided enough 'slips' the previous evening to occupy his thoughts, but perhaps he was quicker than she expected. Or perhaps he just enjoyed the discomfort of others. Well that was fine, two could play at that game easily.

Once in conversation with the other guests, he was irritatingly charming and polite, it was actually beginning to grate on her nerves. The conversation with Marguerite went smoothly and he was the perfect gentleman in conversation, hovering beside her like the doting new husband he was playing.

"My Eduard was like this for the first few months," one of the ladies sighed. "Always by my side, he could hardly bear to be out of my presence."

"He is dear, isn't he?" Irene agreed, patting Sherlock's arm. While he would have liked to point out that the woman's 'Eduard' hadn't been interested in her ever seeing as he was very clearly interested in other gentlemen, he did not. His doting seemed to irritate his bride nearly as much as it irritated him. 

When dusk fell, they were all invited indoors and served dinner. Conversation followed, then music and dancing. Marguerite was adept at the flute and played it while one of the other ladies at the party played piano. Irene took her turn playing and seriously considered singing, just to see how Sherlock would react to her voice. She decided not to, thinking that saving it for a moment she could savor would be far more entertaining. 

Group dances followed and they danced with all the rest in large rounds and lines before some of the guests sat down or stood and conversed. 

"It would be my honor to ask your hand for the quadrille?" someone asked and she turned to face Monsieur Rosseau. 

"But of course," she rested her hand on his arm and away they went onto the floor.

He was a better dancer than she expected, but it was a pleasant surprise. Dancing was a pleasure and even a man her father's age whose gaze may have lingered a moment too long on her bosom was preferable to hovering on the edge of the dancing floor making polite small talk with her husband. Some of the women had potential for interesting information but they all seemed to have vanished onto the dance floor or into the parlour with their husbands to play some kind of tame party game. 

After Monsieur Rosseau came one of the young fops from the card-playing habit. His mouth kept up with his feet and for the first time in a long time, she had to think about speaking French instead of letting the words come naturally. His footwork was excellent and she idly thought that if he was not married he might make an entertaining diversion when she visited the Holmes' summer home. She had no doubt she would see plenty of it and equal certainty that her husband would grow less interested the longer they were married. This was perfectly all right with her, but one had to have the occasional distraction from the mundane and it helped if the distraction had quick feet and an equally quick tongue.  

After the young distraction one of the gentlemen that Sherlock had conversed with about germ theory invited her to dance something simple, a group dance with plenty of turns which cycled the dancer back to his or her partner. After this, three other gentlemen asked and Irene was surprised that when her fifth or sixth dance ended and she glided from the dance floor on some gentleman's arm, her husband met her at the edge of it and bowed.

"If it is the lady's pleasure, might I have her for the waltz?"

She rested her hand lightly at his elbow and allowed him to lead her out.

The music began and he murmured into her ear,

"Our host has a gambling problem."

Something like warmth ran up her spine and she smiled, following his lead in the dance.

"Not just him," she agreed, smiling up at him. 

He raised an eyebrow, turned her, continued the steps.

"His daughter as well."

She watched him stop himself from looking at Marguerite. _It's games he likes_ , she thought. 

"Of course." He said it casually, as though he had also known this. "Her father it's cards, though I suspect that horses are another weakness of his."

"She prefers whist," Irene swept back into his arms, executed another turn, stepped back into time.

"The vineyard isn't owned by him anymore," he said.

"Some is."

"Just the bits closest to the garden."

"He's banking on a good crop this year to pull him back up."

"She's sold most of her good gems and wears paste replicas."

"He has a tell he knows about and another he doesn't."

"She has a fondness for hard liquor."

"As does he."

The music drew to a close and he bowed again, she curtsied. As they approached the edge of the dance floor, another gentleman asked her to dance.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, but I must get something to drink."

"Of course. Perhaps a later dance?"

Her smile was a promise that she had no intention of keeping. With her hand on her husband's arm, they walked towards a table with refreshments. 

It wasn't until the ride home that they spoke again, though it was he to her and only three words.

"Not whist, dice."


End file.
